LALE ARTICLE FOR JAN 2010

MEMORIES OF ISTANBUL: Taking it easy with Vegetables!

(Photo by Mariette Rijnsdorp)

We are an unusual family in Turkey – not only are we foreigners, but vegetarians to boot. While I never cease to be impressed by the volume of fruits and greens that Turkish families consume, a totally meat-free diet is somewhat of a mystery to the average Turk (and to many Europeans it has to be said), so investigating markets and building a relationship with our local suppliers of nuts, seeds, fruits and vegetables has been a must for me.

Like many expats, I adore the street markets with their rows of shiny aubergines and pyramids of spotty burbunya beans and enjoy the banter and barter with the wily and witty traders: calling me ‘abla’ and giving me samples. However, it is not every week that I feel up to the hustle and bustle. My local supermarket is a great standby, but I am concerned about the freshness of produce and prices. This is where the scrutiny of local women’s practice comes in. I use a medium-sized store that is one of a chain of Turkish supermarkets frequented by the largely conservative population of Ferahevler. At first a casual consumer, I have become persuaded of the merits of loyalty as I witness the dividends for ‘regulars’.

The British way to approach the produce section of a self-service supermarket is to discretely move about; apologising for any trolley contact, politely awaiting one’s turn to select from the shelves or timidly queuing to have goods weighed. Eye contact is avoided. If we could become invisible we would.

My Turkish neighbours, however, approach the situation rather as they do driving a car. Trolleys are barged into tight corners, elbows are employed to great effect in gaining access to boxes of fresher produce underneath, questions about quality and pricing are shouted across the store to the Men in Orange who grumpily pick up the squashed fruits left in their customers’ wake.

But I have noted that while the Men in Orange are typically quite surly, they frequently come under the influence of a magical charm that transforms them into willing hands picking over damaged veg to select the most succulent specimens for their customers. The charm is the ‘kolay gelsin’ phrase.

The same women who ‘kolay gelsin’ the stackers also seem to get favours at the weighing area. Once they have ‘kolay gelsin- ed’ the young assistants, their bulging poşets of parsley and overflowing bags of beans get a mysterious priority over my modest kilo of onions or sack of five apples. This is the other difference of course – volume speaks volumes. Turks like to show off their bulk buying.

It has taken me some time to catch on. My text book ‘merhaba’ or reticent ‘nasıl sınız?’ hardly raises an eyebrow. But the day I witnessed a confident shopper strut across to the lemons and announce her arrival with a loud ‘Kolay gelsin!’ it finally sunk in.

“Kolay gelsin!” is one of those ubiquitous phrases that the Turkish language specialises in. Along with the “geçmiş olsuns”, “kutlu olsuns” and the other members of the “olsun” family they pepper the language. As a foreigner it always helps to pad out the halting grammar with these ready made utterances that lend some authenticity while also helping out our patient local population.

The knack comes in remembering which to use where and in dealing with the reaction when you toss one in to the dialogue. My “kutlu olsun”, for example, was not an appropriate response to the death of a (mercifully) distant relative and I was surprised at the “geçmiş olsun” I received for my bashed up car when I recently had an accident. Like driving in Turkey, phraseology is a knack one needs to acquire.

But leaving the olsuns aside, if you really want to build a relationship or earn a smile from the myriad people you meet in business, service and retail around you “Kolay gelsin” is the essential accessory and educated choice for the Turkish language. You politely acknowledge that someone is at work and you appreciate their labours – literally you hope that their work comes easily to them. I had to learn to use it.

I waited until a quiet Saturday morning to test drive the phrase. A rather weedy tomato plant donated to me by the local nursery when I bought geraniums earlier in the season had produced a surprising 3 kilos of tough skinned fruits that needed to be used. ‘Chutney’ was the obvious course of action but I needed apples – preferably a softer variety such as we use for cooking in the UK. It was time.

The Men in Orange had that sleepy expectancy about them that weekend mornings bring. With as much confidence as I could muster, I swung into fruit and veg and let it go: ‘Kolay gelsin!’ I could not have expected a better response had I been Lady Di resurrected from the grave. The gruff, moustached veg man turned to face me with an amused beam:

‘Saĝol’, quickly followed by: ‘How can I help you? What can I get you?’

Rather taken aback I mumbled about soft apples for cooking, but not those expensive, hard Granny Smiths.

‘Yes madam, these Goldens are good. What are you cooking?’ as he fondled a prize specimen for my attention.

‘Well, a kind of jam, errm with onions and tomatoes..’ How to explain the sweet and sour taste of chutney? ‘Soft and cheap – I need a lot.’

Then things really got rolling. Now I was talking their language. Shouts went out across the salad section to the Head Greengrocer.

‘The foreign lady wants a lot of soft, cheap apples for cooking!’

I should have known better. The volume question: I meant about a kilo and a half. Before I could protest my Orange Man had sprinted up the stairs to bring down a heavy crate of ‘reject’ apples. Proudly showing me they only suffered from the odd bruise here and there, he and his manager had spied their opportunity to off load. I could have 2 kilos for the price of one. But I didn’t really need that many, I weakly protested.

Now the morning was hotting up. Sensing a deal in the making, other shoppers began to hover around me, picking over my apples. But no amount of frantic ‘kolay gelsins’ from these women were parting my man from his crate of produce for the yabancı lady. The manager acted decisively.

‘Don’t bother with the little bags, get her a big poşet and empty in the whole crate!’ he ordered, glaring at the predatory Turkish ladies.

By now I realised it was pointless trying to take less; I would lose my reputation as a prudent purchaser. It was a done deal. The over 4 kilos of apples were tied into a carrier bag. As the ticket proclaiming the bargain price of ‘3.90 TL’ was slapped on I could feel the murmurs of envy and appreciation from amongst the throng of fellow bargain hunters. Here was a foreigner who knew how to shop!

I would lose face in the neighbourhood if I didn’t rise to the challenge.

‘Anything else lady?’ enquired my attentive assistant gesturing at the giant hard quinces (ayva). I teased him with a thoughtful pause, ‘Not today, thank you.’ (Secretly I was panicking: ‘Not a clue what to do with those; please don’t give me 4 kilos!’).

With a flourish of my eco-shopping bag, I gave a parting, triumphal

‘kolay gelsin!’ and staggered home to spend the entire weekend making apple chutney, apple pie, apple juice, apple cake......

Ruby and Us

On the back of the book and film about the errant lab 'Marley', I could probably launch a diary about our life with Ruby or 'La Rubia'. To be fair, she isn't really in anything like Marley's league where dog naughtiness is concerned. Nevertheless, as a pup there was a catalogue of destructive scoffing incidents: before reaching a year she had eaten the front half off 4 Victoria sponge cakes, destined to be a magnificent ballerina birthday spectacle, chewed the face off a caterpillar cake (friend's daughter's birthday) , knocked over a child carrying a tray of carrot cake in order to gollop down half of it. This was alongside assorted garbage clearing and cow-pat slurping orgies. There were of course the usual muddy-paws-on-'Sunday best' puppy stories (imaculate girls in matching camel coats) and numerous shredded tights (friend on way to work). Nothing too remarkable for the experts in puppy mischief, but I could recount a rather less common incident where she bobbed up and pulled a friend's long hair so that her head was yanked back alarmingly - I suppose it was dangling there appealingly.

These days most of this youthful high spirit has been replaced by a semi comatose state only infrequently punctuated by the odd misdemeanour such as the scone-athon of a few months ago when an afternoon's baking - quietly cooling beside the stove - was devoured in minutes (actually only 22 scones as she couldn't reach the back ones).

Almost any good ' lab' story has to involve the perpetual quest for food. There really is nothing that gives them so much pleasure; even some eager bottom sniffing by the neighbour's handsome male (dog, I hasten to add!) pales next to the possibility of knocking him out the way to get to his food bowl. Fresh-by dates are of no concern; in fact the more rancid or decomposed the item, the better. The snuffling snout makes a perfect canine vacuum and ever-open jaw is a highly eco friendly waste disposal unit. For lazy housekeepers they are the perfect tool.

Lovable - there is no doubt. She is a soul mate - always there in times of trouble and sickness to comfort and console and astoundingly emotionally intelligent since even the slightest sniff while peeling onions alerts her sadness detectors and she is there at our side wiggling and wagging for all she is worth.

However, if truth be told we have often queried just how much cognitive cerebral activity goes on it that all too caressable head. We have recently been able to put our hypotheses to the test. In the after Christmas, over-indulged lull we sat as a family to watch a National Geographic programme about dog behaviour (are you detecting that we were at a bit of a loose end in a muslim country on boxing day?) There are people with Doctorates whose life's work involves training dogs to watch their eye movements. These are academics with letters after their name (and they don't spell D.O.G.). We were enthralled to witness mutts knocking over the correct cup concealing a treat, which was indicated by their PhD candidate's exaggerated pupil activity alone - and getting it right every time. Ruby didn't watch - she was busy on the sofa with her doggy dreaming involving yelping noises and paw twitching. Perhaps she should have been more observant...The children decided we had to try this.

The following video clip is an enlightening illustration of training in action. Warning: this video contains scenes that may be of an upsetting nature for intelligent Alsatians or border collies called Shep.

In short, while she was a very willing research subject, Ruby seemed not to have grasped the most basic of concepts - ie that once the so-desired treat is placed under a plastic beaker, it has not FAILED TO EXIST. In my child development training this was known as 'object permanence' and is the first sign of intelligence in babies - they realize that when things disappear from view, they are STILL THERE and they look for them. Not so our 5 year old lab. There was really not much point in making googly eyes at the correct beaker when she had lost interest because it was GONE. All that was left of the desirable edible was a plastic thing and what was the point of that? Ayelen went on to patiently take the cup off (FOOD BACK) and as soon as Rubes lurched forward to gollop it, she replaced the cup (FOOD GONE). Interest also gone. Poor Ruby. They did of course take pity on her because there was much puzzled furrowing of golden eyebrows and disappointed hang-dog looks and gave her a treat anyway (maybe she isn't so stupid after all!) But I don't think any of us will be getting our Dogtorates any time soon. Least of all Rubes.